Once Frankie and Miriam had left the roadhouse and Joan Baez had stopped her caterwauling, I went over to the phone. Pat poked her head round the kitchen door and gave me a cursory nod. Judging by the smell emanating from the kitchen, Con’s pie filling was incinerating on the stove. I got another blast of it as Pat closed the door. Judging by the crashing and banging of pots and pans, Pat had at last discovered it.
Again, the phone rang out. I held back the impulse to slam the receiver in its cradle and went and sat at a table, thinking I’d give Fred another try in a bit. s**t happens, I told myself. That’s how I’d always lived my life and I wasn’t about to change.
That attitude had helped me through the tough times.
Helped me not to get bitter.
Reflecting back, I first adopted the phr
